The Sharpest Lives
by Xx starlight-moon xX
Summary: Seventeen year old Barty Crouch Jr is about to find a cause. Bellatrix is about to find a protegé. Rodolphus is about to find . . . a source of annoyance. Rabastan is about to find something worse. And this story really needs a better summary. Oh well.
1. Might Have Known What You Would Find

**A / N : Another new fic. I know, I know. I'm starting to worry a bit about myself too. But I am at the mercy of my muse. I must write as it commands. ;) That said, if this has anything other than really, _properly_ infrequent updates . . . . punish me, please, because my willpower is just terrible and deserves torturing. **

**What's to know about this one . . . . hmm. Chapter titles are lyrics from songs in my music library, and I'll post the relevant lyric and song title at the start of each chapter. Do you need to have read my other stories to get this one? No. But seeing as all my stories are inter-related, some little references and things will make more sense if you have. And my characterization of Barty will definitely make a lot more sense to someone who's read one or all of my oneshots about him (English Summer Rain, Therapy, Moment of Clarity.) Erm, the story contains unrequited slash as a subplot (if you've read my oneshot collection Black Holes and Revelations, and you know that the Lestranges feature heavily in this, then you can probably guess where the slash element is coming from. Clue - it's not Rodolphus.) So if that bothers you, you may want to back away. I will never write graphic slash, trust me, because I don't write smut in general, but if you're uncomfortable with the general idea of a man falling in love with another man . . . . . like I said. You may wish to avoid this, it's quite a prominent subplot, and quite central to my characterization of Rabastan ****. . . **

**Okay. Well I think that's everything for now. If you are reading, it's lovely to have you. (Even lovelier that I haven't scared you away already with my rambling author's notes. Lol.) Leave me a review if you read it, and let me know what you think, because this is similar in some ways but different in others to what I usually write, and I always appreciate feedback. Though not pointless flames which will probably just confuse or annoy me . . . . **

**A note on Barty's mother's name – I made it up. I have no idea what Mrs. Crouch's real name might have been, but seeing as this first chapter is mainly her POV, I had to call her **_**something. **_**So I stuck with the name I gave her in English Summer Rain. (For anyone who has read that, this is set seven years later, and one year before Moment of Clarity. So Barty is seventeen, but his thought processes and general behaviour haven't improved much . . . ) **

**That's all. Enjoy. **

* * *

"_The sharpest lives are the deadliest to lead . . . ." - _**_The Sharpest Lives, _**_by My Chemical Romance. _

* * *

_"Wish I knew what you were looking for,_

_Might have known what you would find . . . . ." - **Under The Milky Way, **by The Church. _

* * *

Theresa Crouch had spent seventeen years trying to make sense of her son. She was starting to wonder if she would ever succeed.

"Barty!" she called, knocking, for the tenth time, upon his bedroom door. "If you don't let me in, I'll . . . . I'll have to . . . . well . . . " She hesitated. "I'll have to call your father!" she finished feebly.

To her shock, the door flew open at once. "What would you do that for?" her son snapped, looking exceptionally bad-tempered, even for him.

She flushed.

"You - you wouldn't let me in," she stammered. "I was worried."

Barty stared at her for a moment. Then, abruptly, his scowl disappeared. "I was _asleep," _he said slowly, as though speaking to someone phenomenally stupid. "I didn't hear you." He yawned and ran a hand through his admittedly rather crumpled looking hair, proving his point. Theresa opened her mouth to apologize, but found she was too slow. He was already talking again. "Are you coming in then?" he asked, perfectly politely, and Theresa found herself swallowing her own apology. He wouldn't listen if she tried to apologize now. It was too late.

Recently, she had begun to wonder if it was too late for a lot of things.

"Why is your bedroom full of fog?" she asked, mystified, as she stepped over the threshold. A strange, mauve-coloured fog hung in the air, making her feel oddly light-headed.

Barty laughed. "Oh, right. Sorry." He pulled out his wand, waved it once, and vanished the fog. "I was making a potion," he explained, smirking a little as he watched her wander around his room, as though he knew she was checking up on him and found it rather amusing.

"I wouldn't touch that, if I were you," he said languidly.

Theresa froze, her hand an inch from the surface of a pale purple potion in a small gold cauldron, which seemed to be the source of the strange fog. "Why not?" she asked apprehensively, frowning at her son.

He laughed. "You like your hand, don't you?" he asked lazily.

Theresa blinked. "Yes, of course."

Barty smiled. There was a smirking edge to it. "Then don't touch it," he repeated patiently.

His mother frowned. "Should you be brewing this?" she asked suspiciously.

Barty shrugged. "Probably not."

"Oh, Barty . . . ." She sighed. "What would your father say?"

Her son scowled again. "I don't think he'd notice. Not unless you _tell _him. And you won't."

"Won't I?"

Her son smiled at her - an easy, lazy smile. "No. You won't. Because you're special."

Theresa blinked. "I am?"

Part of her knew she was being manipulated, knew she was being weak. Believing her son's careless little lies when she ought to tell her husband the truth. But were they lies, really? Barty was a liar, a troublemaker, and a thief. She knew these things. She wasn't blind, she _knew _them. But . . . . when he looked at her like that, when he said things like that . . . somehow, she just couldn't _not _believe him. He really seemed to mean it. _And she so wanted it to be true. _

Barty was smiling at her now, with something very like affection. "You're special," he repeated. "Aren't you? Because you love me."

As if it were that simple.

He frowned. "Don't you? You're always saying you do."

Theresa sighed. "Of course I love you. You're my son."

Barty laughed. "You're funny," he remarked. "So," - he put the lid back onto the cauldron and and pulled her away from it, pushing her gently but firmly into the window seat and bobbing back on his heels, wearing a cheerful, faintly manic grin. "What did you want?"

"I wanted to know if you'll come tonight," his mother said carefully.

Her son's cheerful smile slipped a little. "I said I would, didn't I?"

"You've said that before," Theresa reminded him. "That Christmas party at the Ministry? You promised me you'd come, darling, and I didn't see you all night."

Barty grinned. "That was ages ago," he said dismissively. "And how do you _know _I wasn't there? Just because you couldn't see me? That seems like a pretty flimsy excuse to me . . ." He trailed off and sighed. Theresa's expression had betrayed her unhappiness, and he didn't seem to like it. (And her husband said she was wrong for trying to see the best in him . . . . .)

"Will _he_ be there?" Barty demanded, shaking her out of her reverie.

Theresa shut her eyes. "You know he will, darling." She exhaled slowly, and opened her eyes again. "He's your father, Barty. I don't understand why you hate him so much."

"I don't understand why you _love_ him so much," her son retorted. "It's not like even notices you. He probably doesn't even like you."

"Stop it!" Theresa stood up suddenly, a lump in her throat. "That's enough. That's . . . that's a step too far, darling." She swallowed hard, painfully aware of the fact that she had begun to shake.

Barty tilted his head to the side, regarding her. "Why?" he asked blithely. "You know it's true."

Theresa blinked furiously, hating herself for the tears blurring her vision and hating her son's ability to summon them, to tap into her deepest, darkest fears and casually tug them into the light of day. "That's not true, darling," she said tremulously. "It's not. Why would you say that? Why would you be so-" Her voice cracked.

Her son watched her for a moment, watched her attempt to pull herself together with an indifferent eye. Then he sighed.

"Okay."

"Wh – what?"

He rolled his eyes. "I _said _okay. I'll go to the stupid party, if it means that much to you."

He flinched as she threw her arms around his neck. "Oh _Barty!" _

"Calm down. It's only a _party, _Mother. It's not the end of the world. And I was only joking. You worry too much."

"You don't worry enough."

"That's not true." Barty jerked away from his mother's embrace, glaring at her. "I worry about things," he muttered. He turned his wand over in his hands, staring sightlessly at it. "I worry about living my whole life and nothing ever meaning anything, for instance. That kind of thing." There was silence for a beat, while her son stared rather morosely into space, and then he jumped, catching sight of her horrified expression. He flashed her a sudden, dazzling smile. "I'm joking! Joking!" he said quickly. "Oh come on, don't _cry _about it . . . ."

"I'm not," his mother sniffed. She sighed, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I just don't understand you sometimes, Barty," she said pathetically. "Why do you say these things? You don't mean them."

Her son neither confirmed nor denied this. He simply stared at her, as though she were a rather interesting picture on the front page of the Daily Prophet.

"I – I know you don't mean them," she added uncertainly.

Barty grinned, but the expression didn't quite reach his eyes.

"No," he said softly, still watching her closely. "Of course I don't mean them."

"S – so you'll come? To the party?"

Her son sighed. "You know I don't want to, don't you? You know I'll be bored out of my brain? You know I'll probably spend the whole evening resenting you, or wanting to hex someone?"

Theresa nodded. "But you'll go?" she probed.

Barty rolled his eyes. "The things I do for you," he muttered.

"Oh, Ba-"

"You're not going to try and hug me again, are you?" her son interrupted. "Because I'm standing right next to the window."

His mother blinked. "What does that have to do with anything?" she asked, bewildered.

"I might jump out of it."

It was hard to tell if the sound his mother made in response to this was a laugh, or a sob. Barty watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable.

And then he began to laugh.


	2. Methods Of Keeping You Clean

**A / N : Chapter two! I'm actually doing alright in my "properly infrequent updates" pledge, aren't I? I'm quite proud of myself. **

**Anyway, here you are to everyone lovely enough to read chapter one – chapter two! In which Barty pays attention to all the wrong things, and another pureblood party goes horribly wrong. Oh, and before we start, just a quick thank-you to I Love Rodolphus Lestrange, my anon reviewer. It's always appreciated, really. :D**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_"__Because the drugs never work, _

_They're gonna give you a smirk,_

_'Cause they got methods of keeping you clean . . ." - **Teenagers, **by My Chemical Romance._

* * *

"Hey, um, Critch . . . right? What's in these canapés?"

It was ten 'o' clock and Barty was already bored, something that usually boded ill for everyone in his immediate vicinity. But he wanted to be good today. Or more accurately, having recently been caught in a few situations that had been difficult to explain (to say the least), he wanted to _look _like he was being good.

That wouldn't have been so hard, if being good wasn't so unbearably boring.

He looked his questioner up and down. She was a girl, pretty in a bland sort of way, wearing a bright orange dress that was a long way from pretty.

"Crouch," he said irritably.

The girl blinked. "What?"

"My name isn't Critch, it's . . ." He sighed, wondering why he was bothering. Stupid people, in Barty's experience, rarely listened when you tried to tell them just how stupid they were. So he changed tack. "Why are you eating that?" he asked instead. "Don't you know what's in it?"

"What's in it?" the girl asked nervously.

Barty smiled. Yes. Stupid people rarely realized how stupid they were. But if they did . . . well, they wouldn't be half so entertaining. So he smiled, and pulled the canapé gently out of her hand.

"It's an experimental menu," he yawned. "Fusion cuisine or something . . . . I think it's Flobberworm," he said seriously, looking her in the eye.

The girl gaped at him for a moment, horrified when his serious expression didn't falter, and then she gagged. Barty grinned as she ran away. His grin widened when she ran headlong into his father. He laughed, watching her stutter apologies while his father glowered at her, but he turned away quickly when she fled and his father began to glare at _him. _

"Is Narcissa Malfoy coming?" a woman to his left asked her companion.

"No," the other witch replied sniffily, sucking on the olive in her cocktail with a sour expression. "Her husband RSVP'd for her, apparently she's _ill." _She chewed on her cocktail stick, and let out a contemptuous snort. "There's a word for 'snobbish' I've never heard before."

Barty rolled his eyes. His mother volunteered to spend time with people like this, and thought _he _was malevolent. Sometimes, he really wondered about her. (Mostly, he wondered how and why a person would make themselves so ignorant of the world around them, but occasionally he wondered if there was actually something wrong with her.)

"Barty!"

He blinked. "Wow. I can summon you just by _thinking _about you. That's new."

His mother laughed unsteadily. "Darling?"

"That was a joke, Mother." Why was it his mother could never tell when he was joking?

She smiled nervously at him. "Oh. Of course it was. Of course." She reached out to adjust his tie, but stopped at the look on his face. "Are you having fun?" she asked instead.

Barty stared at her, wondering if she had lost her mind completely, and her smile shrank a little.

"It's – it's a nice party, isn't it?" his mother stammered.

Barty stared at her for another long moment, and then he sighed. "Oh yes," he said dully. "I never want it to end."

His mother beamed at him, and Barty suppressed a sudden urge to knock his head against the wall. He reached instead for a drink, but had taken no more than a sip when someone prised it out of his hand.

"That's enough of that, boy," his father said curtly.

Barty scowled. "I'm of age," he replied angrily.

"Don't answer back to me," his father snapped. "You are at a public function, and I _will not _allow you to disgrace this family. Do you understand?"

"Father, it's _white wine," _Barty objected. "How drunk can I get?"

His father's eyes bulged. "I will not allow you to embarrass this family," he said tautly.

Barty swallowed hard and stuck his hands in his pockets, comforted by the feel of his wand in his clenched fist.

"Your faith in me is just staggering, really," he said sardonically.

There was a stiff silence as his parents exchanged meaningful looks, something that never produced a cheerful result. Fortunately they were interrupted by a staid-looking official of some sort before they could begin to lecture him. His father slipped immediately into Ministry-mode.

"Come, boy," he ordered, seizing his son by the collar and trying to steer him away. "Listen and you may learn something."

Barty glared at his mother as she pushed him helpfully towards his father. When she simply smiled encouragingly at him he gave in, deciding he'd revenge himself upon them both later. He threw himself into a chair at the table in bad spirits, ignoring his father's expression, and tuned out, watching tiny flames flicker in the candlebra as Crouch Sr droned on and on about civil rights suspensions and tactical politics and strategical alliances . . . .

Barty pulled a candle free and held the tip of his finger up to the flame, watching with a sort of idle satisfaction as the fire smoothed the tiny swirls and whorls in his skin, turning it first healthy pink and then angry red. He swallowed when it began to smart, ignoring the involuntary twitching of his hand. The skin was swelling now, a blister forming. It looked raw and red and new and _clean . . . _

"Boy! What did I just say?"

Barty blinked. "Father, I'm listening."

His father's toothbrush moustache twitched. "What did I just say?"

Barty put the candle back in its proper place with a sigh and sat up straight. "We must fight strength with _strength," _he recited. "If we prove to those who oppose us that the upper echelons of the Ministry are _immoveable, _we set an example to those below and inspire them to hold fast in times of strife. We cannot afford to waste compassion on criminals, for the sake of the wider wizarding _community. _Those who do not abide by the laws intended to protect that community cannot _logically expect _those same laws to protect them! We must put the safety of those who cannot defend themselves before the rights of people who scorn everything we hold dear. Now is the time to be united in strength, not divided by beauocracy and–boy-what-did-I-just-say?"

He smirked. "I considered banging the table at 'logically expect'," he added helpfully, "but it seemed a bit much."

The foreign minister gaped at him, and a vein began to throb in his father's temple. Barty waited patiently. Really, reeling off his father's entire argument verbatim was easier than it seemed. There was always a part of his mind – like a separate layer of consciousness – that was acutely aware of where his father was and what he was doing. He put a hand in his pocket again, feeling his burnt fingertip stick to the wood of his wand, and frowned, annoyed.

Now it wouldn't be clean any more.

Maybe it had been a bad idea, he reflected, to deliver his father's words in his father's _voice._

He eyed the foreign minister, and smiled as the silence swelled. "Nice to meet you by the way."

One of his father's eyes now looked in danger of popping clean out of its socket. Crouch Sr stood up abruptly, his chair screeching in protest at such harsh treatment. "We are leaving," he said curtly. "Consider yourself dismissed."

Barty laughed. _Dismissed. Like an employee. _"But I didn't learn anything!" he called at his father's retreating back. "Bye," he added as the other man stood up and hurried after him, shiny shoes clicking against the polished floor like the pincers of a beetle.

He had no sooner reached for a drink when someone else caught his hand. "Where did your father go? What did you do?" his mother asked nervously. She couldn't have looked more alarmed if her husband and son had been duelling for all the world to see.

Barty scowled. "I listened," he said slowly, "and I talked."

"But – but where's your father?"

Barty put down the glass of his own accord this time, and glared at his mother. Why did she have to make everything about his father? Couldn't she forget about him for five minutes and pay attention to something else? Everything was always, _always _about him – what he thought and what he wanted and why he needed to be obeyed and made proud and respected and -

"How should I know?" he snapped. "Curled up in a desk drawer with the Mongolian Minister for Magic, maybe. I'm going to get some air."

He pushed past her and crossed the dancefloor, deliberately getting in the way of as many dance partners as possible en route to the window. Once there he stopped and took a deep breath, trying to calm down but distracted by his reflection. He looked pale and ghostly, backlit by the velvet blackness of night and a few hazy, dimly reflected splotches of candlelight. But even in that poor mirror image, he could see that his eyes were too wide and too bright – they were giving him away again, when they ought to be dull and dark like everyone else's. He was too hot and his eyes were too bright and his heart was beating too fast, veins writhing snakelike beneath his skin. He knew this feeling too well, and he had never been good at controlling it. It was the feeling he got when he needed to _do _something, a feeling like a fever. Stealing his senses and setting him on fire and it wanted him to do something, to make a bad idea an amusing reality. But he couldn't. Not here and not now. He'd be punished enough for his disobedience, when his father found the time to do it . . . push him any further and Barty had a feeling he wouldn't see sunlight for the next ten years. He swallowed, horribly aware of the fact that he was failing and starting to panic. _He had to make it stop. _

_Make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it stop make it - _

It was the flash of green that did it. It caught his eye, and later he was sure it was a sign. Barty wasn't entirely sure he believed in signs, but this one got his attention and sometimes that was all he really needed to believe. A spark to light the dark, and start a fire.

It pulled him back from the brink and closer to the window, magnetized. A glittering green constellation high above him, a skull shining sharp as a star against the sky and a serpent trailing from its jaws, hypnotic in its trancelike undulations. The erratic beating of his heart intensified, but Barty didn't really mind because it was simply keeping him in place, silent fascination keeping that other feeling at bay.

_It knew what he needed._ It was more than just luck, surely. It had to be.

He took a deep breath, one laced with promise and excitement and the tantalizing taste of things yet to come, and watched the serpent twist and turn.

A sign.

Had no-one noticed it? Were they blind?

Barty was still staring transfixed at the skull, a new fire igniting in his veins, when the windows blew in with a sense-shattering _SMASH,_ and the world went black.


	3. Not Your Time To Play

**A / N : Um, by "properly infrequent updates", I didn't mean this infrequent. Chapter three was supposed to have been written weeks ago, but my computer crashed and in between trying to fix it, buying a new one, catching up with weeks of reviews, and retyping notes for three very long fics (I'm about halfway through), I haven't had much time to write. To everyone who's stuck with this fic anyway, thank you, and enjoy the update! It was fun to write, in all its creepy, morbid . . . . oddness. And I promise not to keep you all waiting so long again. ****Okay, off to bed now . . . . :)**

* * *

"_Slow down little one, _

_You can't keep running away._

_You mustn't go outside yet_

_It's not your time to play . .."_ - "The Racing Rats", by The Editors.

* * *

The Mark was still there, hanging above him like some celestial signpost, when he woke up.

Barty was lying on the floor, but that didn't matter. There wasn't much roof left now to mar his view.

Was it quiet? It was hard to tell, with the ringing in his ears.

He groaned, forcing himself into a sitting position as his memory returned in a rush.

The Mark. The window. The noise. The light. The dots were all connected somehow, and they all ought to spell 'danger', but Barty just couldn't seem to join them up properly.

A cold breeze ruffled his hair. He was sitting amid the remains of the window, surrounded by tiny, glittering particles of broken glass – a sea of shrapnel sand, glowing green in the light of the Mark. Barty watched it, head tilted to one side, with a sort of childish fascination, enthralled by the way the once dull floor now caught the light. It was only when the sea began to move that he realized the room was swaying at an angle, and his eardrums were still buzzing. He closed his eyes - breathing deep against the nausea - and shook his head, but this did nothing to ease his dizziness. It simply brought on another wave of nausea, so he put a hand in his pocket and pulled out his wand. Pressing it blearily to his temple, he muttered a spell which cleared his head just enough to allow him to look up . . . . and to wonder why he still had his wand at all. The room he was in did not seem to contain anyone living, though somewhere in the distance he could hear a hiccuping sound it took a moment to place as sobbing.

Glass crunched under his feet as he stood up, and the room gave another alarming lurch, only settling back into place when he seized the window frame. Surprisingly, the action stung.

His palms were ribboned in blood, his cloak tattered beyond all resurrection. There was blood on his face too, but it came away easily enough at his touch and the skin beneath it was smooth, so it had to belong to someone else. This, Barty guessed, was the reason he had been left unharmed – he must have looked as though he were already dead.

That, or no-one considered him a threat.

Slightly demoralized by this, he pulled his sleeve down to cover his wand and stepped cautiously into the hall, straining his ears as more glass splintered beneath his shoes. He was trying to piece together how long he had been unconscious for, and to remember in which direction he had left his mother, when a hand shot out and seized his ankle. He jumped. A thin ribbon of light flew from the tip of his wand and whatever had clutched at him released its hold, falling quietly to the floor.

Barty cast a swift glance over his shoulder, frowning, and then picked up the only candle still possessed of a faltering flame. As he bent down a flash of orange caught his attention. He narrowed his eyes, lifting the candle a little higher, and realized that what he was looking at was not wholly unfamiliar.

It was the girl he had spoken to earlier in the evening - apparently his antics hadn't put her completely off the party.

He laughed. She was probably starting to wish she'd never come. Barty, on the other hand, hadn't felt so alive in months.

He jumped again as the light fell across the girl's eyes, which were stark and staring. She was soaked in blood. Did that make her dead, he wondered, or dying?

She blinked, answering his question for him, and her lips moved. It took her a painfully long time to produce any sound.

"H – h – hel . . ."

Barty moved the light out of her eyes and knelt down beside her, suddenly patient. He had never watched a person die before. And she certainly seemed to be dying . . . .

Unable to prevent himself, he reached out. The girl was cold as marble, her skin pearly white and shining with sweat, and she was crying. Barty watched the tears seep from the corners of her eyelids, mascara staining her cheeks a grimy black, and realized he had been right in his earlier assessment. There was nothing special about her.

"Help," he whispered, wiping her cheek clean with his sleeve. _"Help."_

The girl's breath caught, and a sudden, unmistakeable flicker of recognition lit her gaze. She took a haggard, tortured breath, her entire frame stiffening, and then she opened her mouth again.

"Help," she repeated, like a child learning her first words. Her voice was low and cracked with pain. "Help . . ."

The tears were coming thick and fast now, faster than he could wipe them away. So Barty abandoned his efforts, rocking back on his heels and studying the girl with a detached expression. His annoyance was easily masked. After all, she scarcely deserved it.

A new idea occurred to him.

Ensuring they were truly alone, he leant closer again, catching her face in his hands and stroking her hair as she shivered against him.

"Help. . ." she pleaded again. She was shaking uncontrollably, but that wasn't an attempt to evade the encroaching cold. It was just a reflex, like her senseless plea.

Barty put his lips to her ear, smiling when she stilled at the touch of his warm breath against her cheek.

"You still don't know my name," he whispered. "Do you?"

The girl froze. She hardly seemed to breathe. "C – Cri . . . n – no . .." She fell silent, and Barty let the smile slide from his face.

"That's a shame," he said softly, as he let her fall too.

She hit the floor with a tiny, broken gasp. Her fingers scrabbled briefly against the floorboards, and then her arms went limp and she tucked her head against her chest. Eventually she stopped struggling. She had been trying to curl into a protective ball, but it seemed she was too broken even for that.

Barty ran his hand curiously across the girl's limbs, feeling her shiver and shake beneath his fingertips. She grew colder shockingly quickly, and though she continued to cry, her eyes had become stark and staring once more, something unseen reflected in the vacant mirrors of her pupils. Barty frowned, wondering what she could see that he couldn't. Her lips were quivering like a humming-bird's wings, in tandem with the frightened-rabbit beating of her failing heart, and there was cold sweat beading on her forehead.

Barty felt his heart-rate accelerate. He could hardly hear a thing now above the blood rushing in his head.

"Are you scared?" he whispered.

He couldn't explain why the question seemed so important. He only knew that he had been searching for the answer longer than he could remember, and had yet to find it. But it was here – the question he really wanted to ask, and the answer too. It was hanging in the air, in the cold, in the silence. She had it now, she _knew, _and she was going to tell him. She _had _to tell him.

But when the girl opened her mouth it was only to take a small, gasping breath. She shivered, a tiny tremor passing through her like a sigh . . . . . and then she was still.

Abandoned.

Barty stared at her. He ought to move, but his legs wouldn't obey him. Whatever had snatched the light from the girl's eyes had emptied everything around her too – a vaccuum so crushing and complete it had stolen even the air, and without it he felt dizzy.

_Move, _he ordered himself. _Leave. _

It was senseless to just sit here. He was wasting time on morbid curiosity when he ought to leave, or to do . . . to go . . . . to find . . .

His mother, he decided at last. It was something to do with his mother.

He considered the situation. He could get up. He could search every room in the building. He could call his mother's name, or cast a spell . . . . or he could simply wait for destiny to intervene. Barty wasn't entirely sure he believed in fate, but there had to be something, didn't there? There had to be some deciding factor, some purpose to it all. There had to be a reason he had been left unscathed tonight. There had to be a reason he had decided to come to the party at all – after all, in all honesty . . . . how often did he try to keep his mother happy? He frowned. There was a pulse beating against his brain, a headache knocking for admission. If he didn't calm down he would lose control again, but the pieces were finally starting to fall into place, he was _finally_ starting to join the dots. If he hadn't gone soft on his mother, for some unknown reason, and agreed to come to the party, he wouldn't have met the not-so-special girl, the unlucky pawn in a deadly game, and he wouldn't have seen death. If he hadn't argued with his father, and lost control, he wouldn't have gone to the window, and he wouldn't have seen the Mark. And if he hadn't seen the Mark . . .

What then, he wondered?

And then he heard it. Wild, melodic laughter, floating down the stairwell. It sounded like a symphony all on its own - chaos and triumph and savage, shattered desolation all rolled into one. It was the single most beautiful sound Barty had ever heard.

Destiny, it seemed, did not intend to keep him waiting much longer.

He was on his feet before he made the decision to get up, climbing the stairs before his survival instincts had a chance to kick in.

He saw her the instant he stepped into the light.

A tall, slim figure with wild black hair and blood red lips, a black cloak swirling about her like a silhouette. She was standing in the centre of the room, eyes alight behind a shining silver mask, and crumpled at her feet, sobbing, was Barty's mother.

"_Crucio!" _the woman cried, and as his mother let out an anguished scream, Barty remembered to breathe and stepped into the room.

The woman froze instantly, and his mother's screams trickled into nothingness. Her attacker hardly seemed to notice. She was watching Barty with her head tilted to one side, evaluating him, and for the first time in his life, he wasn't sure what the verdict was. He met her gaze, stuck.

There was a long silence, punctuated only by Theresa's broken sobs, and then irritation flashed across her tormentor's face.

"Shh!" she snapped, bringing her wand down in a whip-like motion. Theresa flinched, struck mute, and her captor smiled. "That's better," she crooned. She raised her wand, levelling it at Barty's chest, and her smile widened.

"Well well well," she said softly. "Have you come to play?"


	4. A Boy And A Girl And A Game

**A / N : Okay, chapter four. Which has given me absolute hell, but that's what I get for trying to write anything at all over the festive season . . . . . I'm completely lazy and distracted, and it doesn't go very well with that awful perfectionist streak of mine. But I might as well just get on with life and post the thing before I pick it to bits in my own head. **

**The title choice . . . . er, I do a lot of writing with my Itunes on shuffle, and sometimes the weirdest songs just scream "Barty!" to me. The more outlandish the song choice, the more appropriate it feels sometimes. Besides, it's a lot of fun. :)**

**I hope you all had a good Christmas, and have a great New Year! Enjoy the chapter, even if it is completely insane . . . **

* * *

"_The story of us it always starts the same, _

_With a boy, and a girl . . . and a game." **LoveGame, **by Lady Gaga. _

* * *

His mother was sobbing, shaking so much the carpet had begun to rub her cheeks raw.

Barty couldn't hear her anymore, but he could still _see_ her. She was gazing at him, pleading without words. She looked the way she always looked when she cried – broken and pathetic, and Barty had always hated that expression. It left a bad taste on his tongue somehow, made him forget, momentarily, that he didn't _care _about disappointing his mother.

He stared at her, impassive. _I hate you, _he thought spitefully, and then he raised his wand.

"_Stupefy!" _

His mother slid instantly to the floor, and then his wand flew from his grasp, as he had known it would.

His attacker caught the slim wooden baton lightly in one hand. She twirled it, once, as though trying to get a feel for it, and then gave a callous laugh and let it fall. Barty tried not to flinch at the clatter of wood against the floorboards.

The woman smiled, tilting her head to one side. "That," she said slowly, "was very rude." She nudged his mother's limp form with the tip of one dragon-skin boot. "I was playing with her," she said dispassionately. "We were having a _lot _of fun."

Barty felt his fingers twitch. His hand felt numb without his wand, but he shoved it roughly into his pocket, determined not to let this show. Instead, he grinned.

"You could play with me," he suggested. "I'm a lot more fun. Trust me."

The woman considered him for a moment, and then she smiled again, her eyes sparkling oddly in the gloom.

"Tell you what. I _hate _to leave something half-done," she said companionably. "So I'll finish up here . . . and then I'll play with you . . . . . and we'll _all _be happy. How does that sound?"

When Barty did not reply to this reasonable proposition, she winked. "This will just take a minute," she said in a stage whisper, rolling up her sleeves and preparing to take aim. The tip of her wand hovered over Theresa's unconscious form like the needle of a particularly indecisive compass, pausing above his mother's heart . . . her head . . . her wrist . . .

Barty watched her. "You won't enjoy it," he murmured, and the compass abruptly found a north. His opponent had aimed her wand squarely at his heart, and she was glaring at him. Apparently, she did not take kindly to interruptions.

Barty swallowed, but held his ground. "It won't be fun," he repeated. "It never is," he added contemptuously. "Not when the person thinks they deserve everything they get." He glanced down at his mother. "She's like that," he said quietly. "It doesn't matter what you do to her. She's just no _fun."_

The wand did not move, but the woman had frozen, watching him intently. She was no longer smiling.

Barty raised an eyebrow. There was cold sweat prickling across his palms, but he tried to ignore it. "I'm right," he pressed. "Aren't I? You're not having fun with her." He felt the corner of his mouth twitch in an involuntary smirk. "You can't be, so you're _lying,"_ he accused.

The woman's eyes flashed - wicked grey - beneath her mask. "And how," she rasped, "would you know that?"

Barty said nothing. He simply smiled.

There was a sound from downstairs – a short, sharp scream – and then a man barrelled into the room. He stepped inadvertently on Theresa's fingers, looked down, and swore. Barty treated him to his most contemptuous look, but the man did not seem to notice. His eyes were fixed on the woman in the mask.

"Bella," he snapped. "The Aurors are coming, we don't have time for this. Stop playing games and kill the brat - we have to go."

The woman – Bella - scowled.

"I'm not finished, _Rodolphus," _she said coldly.

The man – Rodolphus – shot Barty a sharp look. For the first time, he seemed genuinely apprehensive. "You are killing him," he said uncertainly. "Aren't you? Bella . . . "

Bella smiled.

"I'm not finished," she said lazily.

There was an odd crackling sound from downstairs and then another bang . . . . Rodolphus scowled.

"_Bella," _he said urgently. He made to seize her arm, but his companion stepped neatly out of reach. She tossed her hair over her shoulder with unmistakeable arrogance, laughing as something else shattered downstairs.

"I'm not finished," she repeated, turning her back on him.

Rodolphus glanced briefly at the wand in his hand, half-raised it . . . . and then he shrugged. "Have it your way," he said roughly, and then he was gone.

Bella shut her eyes, breathing hard, and then her fingers tightened upon her wand. She took a step forwards, and then another - and then she reached into her pocket and pulled out something short, sharp and silver. A knife. She held it up, tilting it this way and that as though preparing it for some sacrificial rite.

There was moonlight streaming through the broken window, a hard, bright silver.

Barty watched it break upon the blade, bloodless.

Before he could focus his attention again, Bella took another step, bridged the gap between them . . . and pressed the blade to his throat.

"We're _not_ finished," she crooned. "Are we?"

She ran the blade of the knife lightly across his throat, a motion so careful it was almost a caress. Not enough pressure to draw blood, but uncomfortable all the same . . . . . Barty's throat had gone dry, the back of his neck prickling as though he were standing in the glow of a spell. He didn't dare swallow, so he ran his tongue over his teeth instead. His heart was beating painfully quickly, and he had a horrible feeling he was going to be sick if he tried to breathe in a little more deeply.

"Are you going to do it?" he murmered.

Bella arched an eyebrow, trailing the knife tip into the hollow of Barty's jaw. "Do what?" she asked coyly.

"What he said."

The knife bit gently into his skin and Bella laughed, holding up the weapon, showing off the thin stream of blood upon the blade.

"It's like writing, isn't it?" she said softly. "Like ink on a nice fresh page . . ."

She placed the knife against his neck again, in what Barty guessed was the mark it had made. He drew a breath, the air hissing sharply through his teeth, as the wound began to sting. Bella ignored him.

"And you have such a nice neck," she said absently.

The pressure against his throat increased without warning. The rest of the room seemed to fall away, and there was a voice in his head, telling him he wasn't paying attention, whispering, _warning_ . . . but it was hard to listen, somehow. Barty wanted to know what was nice about his neck. He wanted her to keep looking at it like that, as if it were something new and interesting. But he had hardly strung these thoughts together when Bella stopped looking at his neck, and laughed again.

"I don't do what he tells me," she said sharply, and Barty realized she was answering his question. And was highly annoyed about it.

He couldn't help it. He glanced down at her hand, at the ring, at her white-fingered grip on the knife . . . and smiled.

"You're married."

Bella's eyes flashed again. "Stop it. Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

Bella put a finger to his lips. _"Smiling," _she hissed. She pulled her hand back with a giggle as he snapped his teeth at her, narrowly missing her fingertip. The wound on Barty's throat was starting to hurt rather than merely sting, but he didn't care, and Bella didn't seem to care either. She had begun to stroke his neck, tracing a fine line of scarlet onto the tip of her finger.

"You _are _fun," she mused. "But I'm getting distracted, and we don't have _time. _So . . . . " - her smile widened, and the pressure against his neck lightened a little, to Barty's disappointment. "You don't want me to hurt her," Bella crooned, jerking her head to indicate his mother, still unconscious on the floor.

Barty stiffened. "She's not yours to hurt," he said softly.

Bella considered this, her head cocked curiously to one side. "No," she admitted at last. "But she could be. I could take her."

Before Barty could respond to this there was another crash from downstairs, this one louder than before. He felt the floorboards jump beneath his feet and opened his mouth – to warn her? To laugh? - but the exclamation died on his lips as Bella tapped them with her wand.

"Shh . ." She trailed a finger across his cheek, leaving a sticky mark, a bloody tear track. "She was going to die, you know," she whispered. "And she was crying for you. Little Barty. Barty Crouch's only son . . ."

Barty's expression flickered, beyond his control, and Bella smiled broadly. She was so close to him now that when she exhaled, her breath tickled his lips. It ought to be all he could think about .. . . but she had mentioned _him_. She had made it about him, the way everyone did, sooner or later.

He ought to hate her, now.

Barty frowned. Why didn't he hate her?

He was still trying to make sense of it when Bella curled her fingers into the fabric of his collar and pulled him closer, so that they were nose to nose, her eyes locked on his.

"Ah – hh," she murmured, triumphant. "That's what I thought," she whispered. She tilted her head to one side, her finger hovering momentarily above his eye. Then, abruptly, she let her hand fall. "The question is, what do _you _think?"

Barty stared at her. His breathing was ragged, although as far as he could tell, he wasn't angry or afraid. The feeling most closely resembled the one he got before what his mother referred to as "a funny turn" - as if the edge of his concentration had become blurred, something strange pulsing in his veins. He didn't know how to explain it, or what he thought. All he really knew was that he couldn't let her leave.

He wrapped his fingers around Bella's wrist, locking her hand in place, and she inhaled sharply. She looked down at his hand, her expression difficult to read. Then she prised his fingers away, stepped back, and glanced down at his mother, considering.

_Don't. _

_Stay._

_Stop. _

_Help. _

There were a thousand words, each worse than the last, sitting heavy on his tongue, and for the first time in years Barty was speechless.

But in the end, he was spared the need to break the silence. They were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, growing closer and closer . . . . . . Bella swore. She bent down beside Theresa, swift as a rattlesnake, and pulled her hair.

When her victim did not respond she straightened up, satisfied, and pressed a finger to her lips - the universal gesture for "it's a secret".

"Keep her. But remember, little Barty . . . . you don't get something for nothing."

Heavy boots sounded in the hall, and there was a shout - "_Stay where you are, by order of the Ministry of Magic!_"

Bella turned on her heel and whirled her wand at the fireplace. Green flames erupted in the hearth and there was another shout – strangely faint against the sound of the witch's laughter – as a jet of vivid purple streaked past her shoulder. Barty's wand hit him in the chest with force enough to crack a rib, and then the Aurors charged into the room and Bella ducked, laughing.

"Is that the best you can do?" she taunted. _"Stay where you are?" _

Her reply was a volley of curses, the colours of which were reflected, kaleidoscopic, in the silver of her mask. She snarled and swept her wand through the air, a movement like a knife. There was a sickening, audible snap, and the men screamed. The tendons appeared to have been sliced in their legs.

Bella giggled, and then the flames flared brilliant green, brighter than before . .. . she gave an inaudible cry as the fire curled around her waist, harmless . . .

And then she was gone, and Barty was left standing in a ruined room, his mother crumpled at his feet and a grin spreading slowly across his face.


End file.
